


Our Truth

by Eline (Sans_Souci)



Category: Enzai: Falsely Accused
Genre: Bondage, Humiliation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Violence, Other, Prison Sex, Selective Memory, Violence, grievous bodily harm, pistol sex, the kitchen sink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sans_Souci/pseuds/Eline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That Durer/Evan/Vallewida thingy I always wanted to write. Because it was never a realised option in the game. And this might be why Evan/Vallewida does not exist. Reformatted for AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Request fic: For subtextshowing, who wanted VallewidaXEvan. Erm. It’s one of my favourite (hypothetical) pairings and I liked writing this fic a lot, but it’s terribly hard to write the pairing in-character without any DurerXVallewida in it for a catalyst. Hence the serious adult rating and non-consensual aspects of this fic, which may squick some people. (Yeah, like that’s anything new . . .) This fic is also somewhat longer than the others because I had bits of it written long ago, so I hope that no one would mind that it’ll come in parts.

* * * * * * * * * *

When he came to himself again, Vallewida found himself staggering through a darkened hallway, aching from dozens of places he had no wish to list.

This always happened . . . whenever Durer summoned him. His recollection of whatever transpired this evening were blurry, though he might wish for another one of those useful blank patches in his memory soon . . . He had been summoned in the evening after dinnertime—hardly a soul was surprised by now, but they might have been if they knew that Durer had taken him to the offices used by officials in charge of the prison.

That could only mean one thing--Bollanet again. His gut clenched in revulsion. Would that man never leave him alone? And why did he always have that nagging feeling that he was supposed to remember something after each encounter with Bollanet?

Another unpleasant flash of memory from earlier in the evening almost made him retch. A more pressing concern was how much longer he would last as Durer’s toy. Until death, Durer had promised him. Vallewida shuddered to think about it. 

Ironically, Durer’s preference had saved him during the periods of time when he walked the halls of the prison like a sleepwalker, senseless and probably easy meat for anyone who wanted a go. Ever since the head guard had staked him for his own, even the most hardened brutes had given him wide berth and no one bothered him on nights like these as he limped through the corridor.

Rounding the corner to the corridor where his cell was situated, Vallewida walked right into the solid form of Evan.

“Oi oi, it’s almost lights out,” he said, steadying Vallewida as the smaller man stumbled back. “You look like shit . . . Durer again?”

Ah. Well, Vallewida looked exactly like he felt. He nodded wearily. There was no point in denying it. "I'm not dead yet." 

"You look close to it."

Vallewida was not as fragile as he looked. They used to bet that the first sign of wet weather on the field would finish him off, but he had survived his military training. He had survived four long years in this place, which had to be worse than any barracks prison in the country.

No, Evan was more worried that his sanity would shatter long before his body would. He was fortunate, he thought to himself, that someone actually bothered about his wellbeing. 

“Ah, yes. I’ll be better after some rest. Goodnight, Evan . . .”

Vallewida made to walk past him, but the world seemed to sway and his knees gave out. 

“Whoa, careful there!” When his vision cleared, Evan’s arms were supporting him. He half-carried Vallewida’s aching body into his cell and made to lay him on the bunk.

“No . . .” he mumbled, trying to pull away from Evan’s well-meaning hands. Images assaulted his mind then, none of them pleasant.

Evan backed away with his hands up. “Hey, I was just trying to help. Not like I was trying to move in on you or anything.”

But Vallewida was already up and stumbling for the cracked and chipped bowl that served a toilet. He made it there barely in time to vomit a thin milky stream of liquid. The sight of it made his guts churn and what little food he had had that evening was forcefully expelled from his body.

Looking up at Evan’s appalled expression, Vallewida tried to look reassuring and failed miserably when a coughing fit overtook him. Evan had to hold him up to prevent him from pitching headfirst into the toilet. 

“You need more than a little rest,” Evan said as he helped Vallewida to his bed. At this hour, there would be little help to be had. The sad excuses that passed for the prison’s medical staff seldom stayed beyond six o’clock--they both knew that.

As he lay back, Vallewida twitched sharply as pain shot through his spine. He winced again and Evan noticed his obvious discomfort.

Vallewida sighed and turned gingerly onto his side before lying on the cot. “It’s my back . . .” And his bruised ribs, the welted flesh of his buttocks, the raw ache from Durer’s usage . . . but Evan did not have to know about that.

“Are you sure that doesn’t need seeing to?” Evan made to check his back.

“No, I’m fine--really I am--” Vallewida tried to wrap his torn shirt more tightly around himself. One of these days, the much-abused material might not survive another around with Durer.

“What in the world--” Evan had caught sight of the marks. 

“Belt buckle,” Vallewida explained, too tired to evade Evan’s questions. It was no secret, the way Durer played with his toys. “He doesn’t always use one end of the belt.”

The end of a belt, weighted with a steel buckle, when swung with enough force, could leave spectacular bruises without breaking bones--that much Vallewida remembered. From the way he had handled the strip of leather, Durer had plenty of experience using his uniform’s belt as a scourge. 

Evan hissed in sympathy. “That bastard’s not human.”

“It’s never been proven, no,” Vallewida muttered humourlessly.

“It stands to reason—his parentage confirms it,” Evan said, half in jest. “The minister’s carriage was parked at the gates this evening,” he said after a moment.

Vallewida sighed, not liking the way direction the conversation was taking.

Evan, like most members of the press, had enough natural curiosity to kill several litters of cats. He had asked Vallewida about it before, back when he was trying to dig up whatever he could on Bollanet. And Evan knew that deserters were not thrown into some backwater prison to rot without good reason. Journalist that he was, he could smell a scandal from a mile away.

Unfortunately, Vallewida was not privy to his own secrets most of the time. Even the memory of this night might fade by the morning for there was nothing there that he wished to keep with him. 

They had been through this many times and Evan knew him well enough by now to change the subject.

“I have some bandages from the last time,” Evan said as frowned over the state of Vallewida’s body. “But I can’t get any ointment or disinfectant.”

The sudden deliberately loud clank of some weight being rested on the bars of the cell door caused them to look up.

Behind Evan, Durer loomed in the doorway of the cell, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Well, well, I come back to make sure you’re tucked safely into bed and this is what I get for all my concern?”

“I’m sorry. I invited him here,” Vallewida said hurriedly even as Evan edged aside warily. 

“Oh? And what was the purpose of this little visit?” Durer needed no reason to make their lives miserable. This was just more entertainment for him. “Asides from being such good friends . . .”

If Vallewida had been cold before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. Durer had always made . . . insinuations--or threats--about his friends when he indulged in a spot of mental torture. Not that Vallewida had many friends, so most of Durer’s nasty comments had been about Evan.

On the sidelines, Evan’s mouth opened and shut like a fish drowning in air. He wanted to say something, but was aware that he might just make it worse. He was probably right. 

If Evan had been twenty pounds lighter and a head shorter, Vallewida might have tried to physically remove him from the cell, weakened state not withstanding. As things were, he could only struggle upright and watch in horror as Durer entered the cell.

“Say, have you ever fucked your good friend before?” Durer asked Evan as he stepped closer. His tone was so casual that he might have been asking Evan for the time.

Up till that moment, Evan had no idea of the real danger that Durer posed. He turned pale almost instantly.

"Don’t know how?" Durer taunted. Vallewida could hear the ugly leer in his voice and the nausea returned in full force. Evan looked just as ill as Durer advanced a step closer.

“Please--” 

Vallewida did not know what he would have done then. Thrown himself on Durer’s admittedly non-existent mercy perhaps--but Durer had lunged forward to seize a handful of his hair in one hand, successfully forestalling any action on his part. “This little whore’s had some exercise earlier today but he should be good for another round though.”

Durer had left Evan free to move, but as much as Vallewida silently wished for him to go, Evan had remained rooted to the spot.

“Don’t do this,” Vallewida begged as Durer hauled him close. Pressed against the guard’s body, Vallewida could tell that Durer was already hard. He gritted his teeth as the pain in his scalp intensified. “Please. I’ll do anything you want.”

"You’ll do it anyway," Durer said, practically breathing down Vallewida’s neck. "Has he seen you naked before?"

Vallewida did not doubt that the two of them could physically overpower Durer, but that was nothing more than a uselessly defiant act that would land them both in the punishment cells for a week or more.

Willing Evan not to do anything stupid, Vallewida tried not to flinch as Durer pushed aside his shirt and idly fondled his nipples.

“Surely he must have seen you while you two were playing doctor, hmm?” Durer asked, intensifying the pressure and pinching until Vallewida squirmed in pain.

"Stop that," Evan said frantically. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Oh I know what I’m doing. Vallewida knows what he’s doing too," Durer said, chuckling nastily. "It's nothing he hasn't done before."

The world for Vallewida had narrowed itself down to a single point. Pain, anger, fear and shame were entirely secondary to what would happen here in the next few moments. Retaliate or submit. One might allow them both to survive. The other might result in another shallow grave--or two graves--in the prison cemetery. Put that way, his choice was simple.

The darkness threatened to swallow him up again and Vallewida willed it back. He instinctively knew that he might not be able to look Evan in the eye again after this, but if he lose awareness of himself--if he ran from this place he would not be able to face himself.

Durer had no problems stripping off Vallewida’s shirt as the remaining buttons had already been torn off earlier that evening. “Get your trousers off.”

It was a simple enough task to undo his belt and let gravity do its work. It was harder to avoid Evan’s eyes.

After he had removed his trousers, Durer spun him around to face Evan. Still rooted to one place, Evan made a choked-off sound as he was presented with a view of Vallewida’s much-abused back. Vallewida did not think that he had ever hated Durer so much as he did at that moment. What he was planning was vile, but he could bear it. Vallewida thought he could bear it. 

It had been nice to have friends.

"Ever tried this before?" Durer asked, reaching around to fondle his buttocks suggestively. "It's been broken in, but it's still tighter than any other hole you've ever sank your prick into."

"You're sick," Evan said belligerently, but he too was beginning to fear for the worst. 

"You don't want what this whore has to offer?" Durer smiled like a shark--predatory and just as cold-blooded. "Then we'll have to make you want it . . ."

* * * * * * * * * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * * * * * * * * *

Evan had seen a lot of things while chasing the latest scandals. Political scandals, sex scandals, scandals of high society and various other naughty things that people got up to in their spare time. He thought he had seen it all--the very worse of what people could be. Then he had been thrown into this hellhole of a prison where the dregs of society were incarcerated--the murders, thieves, rapists and con-men.

Then he had met Durer. And he learned that while the inmates of the prison were the social equivalent of what one got from scraping the bottom of the barrel, there was a pit beneath that metaphorical barrel where the demons in human form were found.

Durer did not relish the physical aspect of deviant sexual acts, Evan realised as his gorge rose, as much as he relished the power he had over the lives of the prisoners he ruled over. He wanted to cause pain and inflict it on as many people as he could.

Which was why he was still in that cell, staring into the depths of depravity that were Durer’s eyes. 

Evan had never been a violent person. He trusted in his height and size to keep the other prisoners at bay and if that did not work, he was handy enough in a fight. He also possessed enough sense to know that Durer would kill them without batting an eyelash if they tried anything. Vallewida already looked half-dead. And Evan could not--would not--leave the other man in the hands of a psychopath.

He had been disgusted and angry when Durer had insinuated that he would screw his friend. He had been even more horrified when the head guard had revealed the extent of Vallewida’s injuries.

But this was something else all together.

Grabbing Vallewida by the hair, Durer all but flung him at Evan's feet. "I want him up and ready in five minutes or I'll string you up by your hair!"

"Don't . . ." Evan trailed off, horrified. He would have backed away, but there was only the cold impenetrable wall behind him. Perhaps he had never really understood what it meant to be stuck between a rock and hard place until now.

“No.” Vallewida’s voice was muted but clear in that confined space. “Don’t . . . I’ll do what you want--just leave him out of this--”

“You’ll do as you’re ordered!” Durer thundered.

He could have told Vallewida that pleading with a raving lunatic was fruitless. Even now, Durer was raising his arm to deliver another blow.

But Vallewida was faster. It should not have been possible for anyone in his condition to move like that, but Vallewida had caught Durer’s arm as it descended--not to ward off the blow but to restrain the head guard. “Go! Evan--go now!”

“How dare you!” Durer was livid, but Vallewida held on with the last of his strength, effectively hampering him from moving.

Knowing that either way he would hate himself for this later, Evan hurled himself out of the cell door. He turned back, hoping that there was some way that he might be able to extract his friend from this mess, but Durer was pushing his way to the door, Vallewida a deadweight on his arm.

“You’re not going to get away with this--” Durer was howling as he tried to shake Vallewida off by throwing him at the cell door. But Vallewida had grasped the edge of the door and allowed the momentum of Durer’s force to propel it shut with a deafening clang.

Outside the cell, Evan heard Vallewida and Durer's raised voices from within. He could not hear what was said, but a moment later, the sound of flesh striking flesh was unmistakeable. 

“Vallewida!” Evan tugged on the door frantically. Self-preservation be damned, this was too much--

Drawn by the louder than usual commotion, a pair of guards turned the corner carefully. They knew that their superior frequented this corridor.

“Oi you!” one of them barked. “What are you doing here? It’s past ten!”

“I--” Evan was saved from lying by the cell door bursting open beside him.

“Sir!” The pair snapped to attention and saluted a red-faced Durer as though they had been electrified. Durer in one of his moods could result in nasty accidents.

When Durer spoke, it was in a low level voice that did nothing to mask his anger. “Take the prisoner back to his cell. And make sure that no-one else comes by tonight. I do not want to be disturbed until the morning. Make that the afternoon.” He did not even look at Evan as he was hauled away by the pair of petrified guards. “I have . . . pressing business to attend to here. A matter of discipline I intend to see to personally.”

The door slammed shut again. Evan had not been able to see Vallewida in the dim light. What was happening now? He had some fairly good ideas about what Durer’s idea of _discipline_ was. 

Dumped unceremoniously in his own cell by the guards, Evan heard the door latch shut and kicked the bed frame in a rare fit of pique. By the time morning came, Vallewida might be dead. 

It was the same every time--the uncertainty of whether one of their number would be alive come the morning.

* * * * * * * * * *

The waiting was usually the worse part. The anticipation that ate at him until he could barely remember to smile and be jovial. But he always got through somehow.

Morning came and went without any news of Durer or Vallewida. No-one had been allowed to go through the corridor outside Vallewida’s cell.

Evan took to finding excuses to walk past the infirmary every few hours. His efforts paid off around dinner time when the infirmary staff on duty were heard to be griping about the extra work. “Extra work” turned out to be Vallewida. Evan successfully inveigled his way in on the pretext of getting a bandage and was drafted immediately on the account that he looked like he could do most of the heavy lifting.

“I hope you’ve got a strong stomach . . .” one of two staff on duty warned him. Evan assured them that he had insides of steel and almost proved himself a liar when he saw what was waiting for them on the rickety gurney.

Vallewida’s face was a swollen and bruised mess. The rest of him . . . what the rags of his clothes did not cover up--Evan felt his gorge rise as he surveyed the damage.

“Well, let’s do this,” the surgeon said briskly with the air of someone who was used to this grisly business. “Broken bones--apparently none. Wait . . . the jaw’s possibly fractured. Lacerations, a whole lot of them . . . Du--someone was feeling generous last night . . .”

Evan listened to the list in horror. Mistaking his pallor for just queasiness, the other staff whispered to him that they dealt with that sort of thing every day and if he had seen what had been left on their doorstep last month . . .

Tuning out the morbid recollections of the infirmary keeper, Evan concentrated on not losing his dinner over their leather aprons. Then the surgeon turned Vallewida over.

He managed to find a bucket first--Evan did not know how he had found the presence of mind to find one, but he did and was heartily sick into it. 

The surgeon and his helper raised their eyebrows ever so slightly and merely asked him to dispose of the bucket after he boiled some water and helped to get the patient on the table. 

Pulling himself together, Evan got the water boiling and without throwing up, transferred Vallewida’s limp body to the surgeon’s table. The surgeon--a former army sawbones--cleaned off most of the blood and told Evan to consign the ragged remains of Vallewida’s clothing to the fire. Bandages were brought and applied to the affect areas--that was to say almost every inch of skin.

“Well,” the surgeon looked down at his handiwork, “that’s the best I can do with limited resources. Perhaps we could spare him some morphine for when he wakes up.”

“We’re out of morphine and down to the last bottle of syrup of poppies,” his helper informed him.

“Then give him the syrup of poppies,” the surgeon said, stripping off his apron. “Is it nine already?”

The infirmary staff were in an obvious hurry to be gone. Evan was given one brown glass bottle with a dark residue at the bottle and instructions for its dilution. The two men were out of the door before Evan could ask about the frequency of dosage.

“Well, that was helpful,” he said to no-one in particular. 

Alone in the infirmary with his unconscious friend and unhelpful medical advice, Evan settled down to wait until the guards came along to hustle him back to his cell at ten.

In the relative quiet of the infirmary the next evening, Evan looked down at Vallewida’s bandaged jaw and the compress over his right eye. He was breathing evenly, but appeared as dead to the world as he was last night. The silence was deafening and if there was one thing that got Evan depressed, it was the lack of any intelligent conversation.

“Good evening, it is another bright and sunny day here,” Evan was compelled to say after a while. “You have missed out on another exciting day of . . . wait for it--making shoes!”

His voice in the room sounded forced and forlorn, but Evan persevered.

“The foreman has announced that come next week, we will go on to making boots. The excitement just might kill me.”

Evan would have rambled on if a movement from the bed had not caught his attention.

One grey eye peered up at him in--and Evan could hardly believe it of a man who had been almost thrashed to death--concern. Vallewida was trying to say something. Evan had learned a little about reading lips in his line of work, but Vallewida’s cracked and bruised lips barely moved.

“Wo--worried? You were worried?” Evan said in amazement. “Durer flayed the skin off your back and you were worried?”

A pained nod and some attempt at speech again.

“Stop trying to talk--your jaw could be fractured,” Evan said, moving to the table to retrieve the medicine bottle. “I don’t suppose they bothered to give you your medicine in the morning . . .”

Head shake, abortive hand gesture. _No_.

“Are you sure?” Evan was no doctor, but he was positive that Vallewida was in pain from his multiple wounds.

Nod. _Yes_.

“All right, but if you need to, just . . . just do something to get attention. I’ll be back after dinner.”

Over the next week, Evan made daily visits to the infirmary. He brought books from the library and read them aloud there, watched by one attentive eye. Vallewida recovered enough to speak properly, mainly because, or so he claimed, that he could not stand watching Evan talking to himself like a mad man.

Of the events that had precipitated this current state of affairs, they did not speak of them. There were some things that would remain unsaid by mutual agreement and if his jokes sounded a little too artificial and Vallewida’s replies were muted, they said nothing about it.

* * * * * * * * * *

In retrospect, Evan should never have let his guard down. Durer was not the type to let a grudge go. But under the circumstances, Evan had no way to anticipate or prevent what happened two weeks after Vallewida was discharged.

It had been an ordinary--ordinary for the prison at any rate--evening. He had gone to pick up Vallewida’s books to be returned to the library. Outside the ex-soldier’s cell, he suddenly scented a whiff of cigarette smoke. Had Durer been around? The head guard had been sparing with his attentions after Vallewida had emerged from the infirmary. Some other new arrivals had taken up his time and attention--or so Evan had hoped.

Dreading to find the aftermath of another of Durer’s perversions, Evan looked in and found the cell to be in a disarray. Various small items had been scattered on the floor and he had been mistaken in his assumption that Durer had came by and left.

The mattress had been dumped on the floor and Durer sat on one end of the bed frame, stubbing out a cigarette. “You certainly took your time. Your friend and I were waiting ever so long for you,” he said, tangling one hand in Vallewida’s hair in a mockery of a caress.

Vallewida made a choked-off noise of protest--he had been gagged with a scrap of material torn from his shirt. Durer had used his handcuffs to fasten his wrists to the bedframe. Bent over the foot of the bed, he was naked from the waist down.

“I was a little rough with him the last time and I was . . . told that I couldn’t play with my toys so hard,” Durer said softly. “But I get so impatient of waiting for my orders to be obeyed. A few weeks ago I ordered you to fuck the slutty little cunt and I’m still waiting.”

“You can keep waiting,” Evan said, barely restraining himself from adding _you sick fuck_.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Durer asked, standing up and walking over to Vallewida. “Are you deaf? Just stick your cock in here and you’ll have the best thing next to a woman!”

Evan shook his head. This was getting out of hand . . .

"Or perhaps we should do it this way . . . Raise your hips up, slut!" Durer snapped, grabbing hold of Vallewida’s shirt and pulling his torso up. "Higher!"

Vallewida complied, his long hair obscuring his face as he was forced to display his buttocks and thighs.

"Now what shall it be today?" Durer mused, his hand idly stroking the scarred flanks of his victim's body. "What about my pistol, hmmm? We’ve had good times with that before . . . It brings me back to the first time you had this up your hole. I had just received my promotion and we had our own private celebration . . ."

To Evan's horror, Durer drew out his pistol, cocked it and positioned it between Vallewida's buttocks. When he started pushing the barrel in, Vallewida gave a soft whimper that finally broke Evan's paralysis.

"Stop it! You could kill him!"

"Shhh---quiet, I get jumpy at loud noises," Durer said, malice practically dripping from his smile. "My finger might slip."

"I'll do it--just stop!" Evan blurted out. 

“Oh? You don’t seem ready to me,” Durer leered, eyeing Evan’s crotch in a way that made his skin crawl. If Vallewida had to face this every day, it was no wonder that he thought he was going mad.

“Well?” Durer barked, pushing the pistol in deeper.

With a curse, Evan undid his trousers and grasped his cock. As he stroked himself, he imagined that he was strangling Durer. This did absolutely nothing for him and merely made Durer impatient.

“Did you forget how to get it up?” Durer demanded. “Now that wouldn’t do at all . . .”

For once in his life, Evan hoped for temporary impotency as Durer fondled Vallewida openly.

“It's hotter and tighter than any woman you've been inside,” Durer whispered as his gloved hands gripped the soft flesh of Vallewida’s rear. 

The way Durer licked his lips as he spoke was obscene, but Evan felt the blood rushing to his face at the jailer's crude words. Unbidden, he watched mesmerised as Durer's hand stroked the curve of Vallewida's buttocks.

The sight of those pale limbs was arousing. It was an entirely inappropriate reaction given the situation and the horrible scars that Vallewida bore.

"That's more like it," Durer said and Evan was mortified at how fast he had become hard. "Looks like we don't get to play with this today."

Durer seemed almost disappointed as he pulled the pistol out from Vallewida's ass. Vallewida himself seemed to relax--the tension draining out of his bowed form like a bowstring going slack. Evan wondered if he could have lasted as long without wetting himself in fear.

"Your friend still doesn't want to do you," Durer said to Vallewida and stripped off the gag. "Why don't you ask him to?"

"No." Vallewida's voice was barely a whisper in that tiny cell.

"What was that again?" Durer asked sharply.

"No. I--I want you to . . . I want you inside me." 

"Saaa, you'll have to live with a substitute today--if he can keep it up long enough." Durer beckoned imperiously. “Hurry up and do it!”

The head guard was not in a mood to be trifled with--his glare threatened more consequences. Evan spat on his fingers, desperately wishing for a way to make things less painful for Vallewida who had already been cruelly used that night. Evan stretched him as much as he dared before pushing his way in slowly.

And being inside Vallewida was, God help him, as hot and tight as Durer had said. It was everything he had remembered about sex and more.

As Evan eased himself forwards, Vallewida stifled a pained moan. He froze, afraid that he had done even more damage.

"It's all right," Vallewida murmured from under him. "Just get it over with, Evan."

“But you’re—”

“Just do it and we might both live.” Vallewida’s ultimatum reminded him of the men who had disappeared and never came back. The sound of the door closing on the sounds of screams and blows.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said as he started to move.

He let his instincts take over--God alone knew it had been a while and his hand was not always a good substitute. And the body underneath him . . . the feeling of warm flesh tightening around him--it was so intoxicating that he temporarily forgot that he was violating a friend at Durer’s order.

And so he pounded into that body, desperate for relief. When it came, his climax ripped its way out of him, draining him dry and leaving him weak at the knees.

When his head cleared and he found himself slumped over Vallewida’s back, Evan saw the scars again and he was immediately disgusted at himself and what he had done. 

“Good, wasn’t it?” Durer said and any residual enjoyment of the act shrivelled up and died inside Evan. Leaning against the door of the cell, Durer was lighting a cigarette.

“Perhaps I should start charged a fee . . . Four sous for a ride?” Durer continued. “Or is that too much for a whore? Was it worth even two?”

Furious with himself and the instigator of the affair, Evan held his tongue as he pulled his trousers up.

“Nothing to say? Well then, get lost,” Durer said languidly. Apparently the night was not over for one of them. Evan could only stare at the guard in disbelief.

“I said get out.” Durer stood upright, suddenly menacing in the dim light with his wreath of foul cigarette smoke. Slumped over the end of the bed, Vallewida stirred and lifted his head.

“Go, please,” he said. There was no emotion in Vallewida’s voice, just a hollow demand that for all its flatness, drove Evan out faster than his pleas had a month ago.

“Yes, it is easy to disobey when you’re not the one getting punished for it,” Durer whispered, his mad eyes intent on Evan’s.

There were no curses or expletives for what Evan felt as he stumbled out of the cell. There were no words to describe the utter hopelessness of the situation. For once in his life, Evan was at a loss for words.

* * * * * * * * * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * * * * * * * * *

It had been like a nightmare from which he had not been able to wake up from.

Durer’s foul ministrations aside, there had been the complication of Evan’s presence. Vallewida had not defied Durer outright for months and the consequences made him go cold inside just thinking about it. The skin on his back had taken almost two weeks to heal--longer than other injuries that Vallewida would prefer not to think about.

Evan had been there. Dependable Evan. Always on hand to pick up the pieces after Durer was done.

Vallewida wished that Evan had not seen so many things, but the man had the curiosity of a dozen cats. It was going to get him killed one day. Everyone in the prison lived under a death sentence. It was a standard joke that the top three causes of death in the prison were, in increasing order of deadliness: malnutrition, disease and Durer. 

They did not speak of it but they both knew what was coming at the end of Evan’s sentence. Bollanet would have Durer make certain arrangements, and Evan would end up as another victim of the many “accidents” that could happen in a prison. The prison cemetery contained many graves belonging to all the others who had tried to expose his wrongdoings or those who had merely been in the way.

It was a well-known fact that Durer positively relished the chance to do the deed himself most of the time. No, Durer did not need an excuse to rough Evan up.

Vallewida had tried so hard to avoid Durer after that and the head jailer seemed to have other things on his mind. Or perhaps Bollanet had cautioned his son about his excesses. The father shared the son’s perversions. One less toy for Durer was one less toy for Bollanet to play with after all.

But Durer had been biding his time. Waiting and watching like the obsessive maniac that he was. He had surprised Vallewida that day by waiting in his cell for him when he returned from dinner. Subdued after a short tussle, Vallewida had been more surprised when Durer had done nothing more than settle down to wait.

Of course it had boded ill for Evan, who had been helpfully returning library books for Vallewida all week. But he had not expected Durer to go that far. He had used the pistol again and Vallewida would have given anything to have blacked out by them. But he had held on to consciousness, refusing to leave. Because it would mean leaving Evan with Durer and God knew what could happen then.

So it had been the three of them there in that cell. Evan forced to rape him. Durer watching Evan fucking him. And himself, aware for the first time of what was being done. 

The pain of the act was only eclipsed by the pain in his head--a white hot brand behind his eyeballs that felt dangerously close to erupting. _All wrong . . . This had happened before . . . A friend--his best friend . . ._

When it stopped, Vallewida was grateful to Durer--of all people--for sending Evan away so that he could stop resisting the darkness and let the blessed nothingness come when Durer started on him. But no, that was not right--Vallewida himself had sent Evan away . . . 

And he had been left with one lingering thought: _That it should not have been like this . . ._

When Vallewida came to, he was tucked snugly in an infirmary bed. After being discharged the next day, he discovered that his cell had been tidied back up to a passable resemblance of its former condition. Evan had not forgotten to take the library books back to be returned.

Confronted by the sight of his books and papers neatly stacked up, Vallewida had forced himself to go down for dinner despite the soreness of his jaw--Durer’s handiwork again--and sat down next to Evan. As though nothing had happened. As though certain deeds had not been done and certain things had not been said.

Within a few days, they could speak without avoid each other’s eyes again.

But he could not help but feel that there had been something that had been broken beyond repair.

Perhaps there had been a method to Durer’s madness after all.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Evan had almost ran out after that awful scene in Vallewida’s cell that night. Self-loathing was mild compared to what he had felt then. Durer and his filthy, polluting hands had marred one of the only things Evan had valued in this hellhole.

He had just lost a friend. He felt disgusting. Was this what Durer’s victims felt like all the time? Oh God, was that _blood_ on his trousers?

Shut back in his cell for the night, Evan had confirmed that, yes, there was blood on his trousers. He had just hurt a friend on top of everything else.

His conscience had needled him all through the night and Evan did not sleep a wink. He knew that he should check on Vallewida, but the thought of facing his friend after _that_ . . .

Browbeaten by his own conscience, he had gone back to Vallewida’s cell in the morning to find Vallewida unconscious on the floor. The familiar routine of getting Vallewida to the infirmary was almost soothing. The doctor took over and Evan went back to work.

Guilt drove him to look in on Vallewida in the evening and to pick up some of the mess left by Durer in Vallewida’s cell. It was the least he could do now. That and return the library books. 

Evan almost forgot to smile that day. The following day, Io noticed that he was less than his normal chipper self and Evan had to work doubly hard to compensate.

But the unexpected had happened at dinner. Vallewida had sat down next to him and there had been an awkward pause before the former soldier passed over his bread roll because he was not quite up to chewing solid food yet.

And it was somehow all right after that. Though not completely. Evan knew it would never be completely all right after what had happened.

That exhibition of Durer’s unsubtle possessiveness . . . It was a message that even a blind man could read. _Private property. Hands off. This means you._

Evan might have laughed it off if not for the niggling feeling at the back of his mind that Durer was sometimes a lot sharper than he appeared, megalomania notwithstanding.

A great many inmates had thought that they were screwing because close friendships were the prison equivalent of “fuck buddies”. The strangest thing was, it would have been a great cover for their discussions of what Evan termed _The Conspiracy_ if Durer had not been such a possessive asshole.

But their positions were clear now. The lines had been drawn. Vallewida knew this. Evan knew it. And Durer, damn him, probably knew it too.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

As the days and weeks wore on, Vallewida was somewhat glad of the daily grind of the prison. It helped to return the state of normalcy that they had lived with for years.

Durer would come after him for something. There would be a brief spell of memory loss. Evan would be around afterwards to cart him to the infirmary or patch him up.

In the weeks that followed the incident, Durer had found it amusing to goad him by suggesting frequently that Evan might like to join them. Or threatening to call Evan in when Vallewida was being particularly stubborn. And Vallewida had caved. Every. Single. Time.

Durer got tired of it eventually. As long as Evan was keeping a low profile, the head jailer would have little or no issues with him. Vallewida breathed easier for it and things went back to the way they were.

A long time ago, or so it seemed, Evan had been interested in Vallewida’s case because Bollanet had been involved somehow.

Evan had a bone to pick with the corrupt minister, though he never said it out loud. But Vallewida knew certain things. Knew about his lawyer friend outside and the miscarriage of justice that had landed Evan in prison. Knew that no-one could be that cheerful after so long in this hellhole after what had happened to him just before . . . And he knew why younger prisoners like Io triggered the protective instinct in Evan.

But if Evan knew that Vallewida knew that much, it was not a common feature of their conversations. At least not the ones they had in public. One never knew who was listening to random conversations around here.

After a few years, it seemed normal. Their strange friendship based on their connection to Bollanet. The shared knowledge that one of them might die first at Durer’s hands. The occasional lost causes . . .

“You’d think that there was an increase in juvenile crime,” Evan said, sighting along the line of prisoners. “Hey, there’s the new boy. Your neighbour?”

Vallewida nodded. The new boy--he looked dreadfully young to be in the prison. But there had been younger men who had entered the gates and died before they pasted their first year. “He arrived yesterday.”

“Better make sure he doesn’t run afoul of Jose so soon,” Evan continued. There was so little room for pity here, but Evan always tried. Vallewida did not doubt that the boy had already experienced Durer, but there were lesser predators to be wary of within these walls. 

“Ah. He made it through the first evening without running into Jose’s welcoming party,” Vallewida said. Yes, the boy probably reminded Evan of his younger brother.

“Great--now all he has to do is survive the workroom. I’ll do my best,” Evan said cheerfully. Do his best to help others because there was nothing more either of them could do here. _Nothing he could do to help Vallewida or himself._

Evan could see Vallewida watching him out of the corner of his eye and he smiled again. It was not an obviously fake smile this time as he got up to join the rest of the crowd. Vallewida returned it briefly before consigning it to the back-room of memory. 

And there it would remain, like all the other things left unsaid between them.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (With added spoilers)  
> And that was my interpretation of why Evan and Vallewida aren’t a canon couple in the game even though they seem rather compatible (so much for being more attracted to people you are in closer physical proximity to). The LuscaXEvan was a major cock-block. Even more so Vallewida’s Amazing Heterosexual Past (TM).
> 
> i.e.: This is _Enzai_ , everyone and their relationships are effing screwed up. Please leave normalcy at the gate or have it raped away by Durer.


End file.
